come to a life. And so everything within me that had turned toward that too-bright light would then drink deep of the lees of death.
The thirst of this incessant unrest and longing, this weariness of self, would be quenched completely.
My life would be like fertile soil planted thickly with rank wild mustard. On every square inch of soil there would be a dozen sprouts of wild mustard. There would be no room—no room at all—for an anemone to grow. If one should start up, instantly it would be choked and overrun with wild mustard. But no anemone would start up.
My life now is a life of pain and revolt.
My life darkened and partly killed would be more than content to drift along with the current.
Oh, it would be a rest!
The Christians sing, there is rest for the weary, on the other side of Jordan, where the tree of life is blooming. But that rest, of course, is for the Chris-
